


at the end of all lines

by tosca1390



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say every time things will be different. Rukia has stopped believing them at last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at the end of all lines

**Author's Note:**

> High School AU.

*

The new house is bright, airy, pale wood floors and cream walls. Cherry blossom trees grow at the front gate, still bare of buds.

“It really is lovely. Don’t you think?” Hisana says, soft and quiet at her husband’s side. She looks frail in the late winter sunlight, too pale; but it is a good day, nevertheless.

“Soothing,” is all Byakuya says as they stand in the front hall, watching as the movers bring in the boxes and furniture.

Rukia doesn’t watch the movers. She watches her sister, her brother-in-law; it keeps her mind busy, keeps it from wandering to the new school looming over her on Monday, the new doctor her brother is sure can help Hisana. It’s her fourth new school in three years – they move from city to city trying to find the right combination of doctor and location and environment to suit them all (but really Hisana).

She’s seventeen, and there are many things she’s never done in the service of an ailing sister and a stoic brother-in-law. It’s a resentment she buries and hides, as Hisana, beautiful and fragile, reaches for her hands and pulls her close in the cool shadows of their newest home.

They say every time things will be different. Rukia has stopped believing them at last.

*

“Would you like to come to the doctor’s office with us, Rukia?”

Rukia swallows her tea, shifting at the breakfast table. Hisana sits across from her patiently, eyes wide and soft. Byakuya has left for his second week at his new law office already. Karakura High lays in wait for Rukia; it’s just an hour until class is to begin. Her new satchel and texts are waiting, and she has all her paperwork from her old school ready. But there is something unsettled in her stomach, makes it hard to finish her toast; it is nerves, and she hates them.

“When is it?” Rukia asks at last.

“Oh, sometime this afternoon. I just thought you might want to meet Dr. Kurosaki. He’s odd, but marvelous,” Hisana says softly.

Rukia twists her fingers around her tea cup. “I don’t know how late school lasts here. I wouldn’t want to delay you,” she says finally, keeping her eyes on the cool dark tea.

“Of course,” Hisana murmurs. “I didn’t think of school.”

“Perhaps next time,” Rukia offers, shame flushing her cheeks.

Her sister nods and smiles, graceful and petite in the wide open kitchen. When Rukia rises to leave for school, she stops to kiss Hisana’s cheek, a rare moment of physical contact not contextualized by screams and cries and pain. It’s a small gesture, but she makes it because it’s all she can do.

Guilt mutes the nerves humming in her stomach, as she walks to school.

*

All Rukia remembers of her young life is Hisana’s illness.

It bloomed late in Hisana’s teen years, when she was just beginning to come into her own as a woman and a student. She was to go to university to study art and art history, and remain a steady influence in the house. Their parents passed long ago, and it was only through the inheritance money and Hisana’s dedication that they scraped through enough to get Rukia into good daycares and schools and Hisana into university.

There are moments that Rukia remembers clearly; the dark cast of her sister’s gaze, the sharp snap to her voice that sounded so rare, the coughing fits. When she met Byakuya, and he swept her off her feet, she tried to parry away his curiosity and conceal her troubles. But on the night he proposed at the dinner table, ten-year-old Rukia sat at the table sipping her tea in silence, waiting for Hisana to crack. It had been a bad day.

Crack she did. Hisana burst into tears at the table, unhinged and lost to them. Rukia was the one to get up from the table and guide her sister up the stairs, putting her to bed as she was used to.

When Rukia finally came back downstairs, Hisana finally asleep, Byakuya was still there, waiting for her.

“She didn’t tell me,” is all he said, staring at Rukia.

“She didn’t want to scare you off. She loves you,” Rukia had murmured.

It was the last time they ever spoke of it, really. Byakuya stayed, and married Hisana. Life shifted and changed, and they were well-off once more. For some time, everything settled into some kind of normalcy, with Hisana the doting wife and Byakuya successfully running his family’s business and Rukia excelling in school.

For years now though, since the start of high school, Hisana’s health has slowly declined. Rukia knows it’s just a matter of time; what will happen after, to her and Byakuya and the strange family they’ve patch-worked together, is a mystery.

*

After two weeks, Kyouraku-sensei keeps her after English class. His teaching assistant, Ise-san, lingers in the corner near the chalkboard.

“I just wanted to check in, Kuchiki. See how you’re settling in,” he says, sitting behind the desk. There’s a lazy smile on his mouth.

Rukia tucks her books closer to her chest, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Am I not doing well in your class?” she asks patiently. She has dropped into the class in the middle of their Shakespeare unit, right in the midst of _Henry IV_ ; certainly, she is familiar with the Shakespeare canon at this point, but she wants to do well, to prove herself at the start. She does not want special treatment.

Kyouraku’s mouth turns. “You’ve done very well, Kuchiki. I am only checking in for my own reassurances of your well-being.”

From behind him, Ise-san rolls her eyes. “She’s just fine, sir.”

“I am,” Rukia murmurs, the flush thick on her throat.

“Well, if you need anything,” Kyouraku murmurs, waving a hand at her.

His voice stops her at the door, as she curls her hand to the doorknob. “Oh, and if Kurosaki is bothering you, we can always shift the seating arrangement,” he says. She can hear the amusement in his tone.

Rukia shakes her head, not looking back. “He’s not, sir. Thank you,” she says evenly, leaving the classroom.

Kurosaki is the boy who sits directly behind her, who talks to her under his breath constantly, who slides his hand across her shoulders and carries her books for her as class lets out. She’s flustered and confused by him, and can’t help but lash out verbally, because that’s what she does. He doesn’t seem to be scared of her, though; in fact, he seems to like it when she gets agitated, and it throws her for a loop. She’s not used to attention; she slips from class to class in school after school, and keeps her energies for studying, for her sister. It’s strange, to have such a pull to a boy like this.

He’s also her sister’s doctor’s son, and that just brings her two worlds too close together for her comfort.

“Yo.”

Rukia looks up as she reaches her locker. Kurosaki leans there, tall and serious and grinning.

“Yes?” she asks at last.

“What did Kyouraku want?”

“Is that really your business?” she asks archly. The hallways are quiet; it’s a warmer than usual day for this time of year, and the students have flocked outside for lunch.

He shrugs, arms crossed over his chest. “If you want any help, I’m good at this English lit shit. I could –“

“I don’t need help,” she says curtly, her books pressed tightly to her chest.

Gaze heavy on her, he pushes off the line of lockers. “Just saying, I’m around,” he says quietly before he walks away towards the exit at the end of the hallway.

Rukia watches him walk away, a bitter taste on her tongue.

*

On good days, Hisana makes the effort.

Rukia comes home from school and the house smells of food cooking, is pristine and clean. The garden is weeded on those days, fresh flowers arranged in vases around the house. It's what Hisana thinks a Kuchiki wife should do, and be; Rukia knows Byakuya loves her no matter what. Still, the efforts show; it makes it easier to handle the harder days, which come more often than not, now.

It's a warm spring day, the cherry blossoms nearly in full bloom. Rukia walks home from school, thinking of English class, of the boy with the odd hair and dark eyes watching her, poking at her. He wriggles his way into her ears, keeps her entertained even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Even after the awkward locker encounter, he continues to carry her books, tease her, but does nothing else. He never mentions her sister, her situation, though he must _know_.

Her thoughts keep her so focused that she almost misses the smell of cookies in the air as she enters the front hall.

A good day, she thinks, slipping her shoes off at the door.

Rukia makes her way to the kitchen, satchel loose in her hands. Hisana hovers between the island and the oven, an apron tied at her waist. She looks flushed and healthy, a rarity now.

"You're home," Hisana says with a smile as Rukia slides into a seat at the kitchen table.

Nodding, Rukia pulls out her math textbook, her notebook covered in strange doodles and messy notes from distracted moments in class. "It smells good in here, nee-sama," she says.

Hisana smiles. "Just something special for you, and Byakuya. How is the new school?" she asks, her back to Rukia as she opens the oven door.

They've had this conversation three times before in the month since they moved to Karakura Town. She never remembers; Rukia is told not to mind, and she doesn't.

Still, bitterness lingers on her tongue as she answers, again. "It's lovely. I'm in all advanced classes," she murmurs. Next, Hisana will ask about extracurriculars, about new friends; there is a pattern to it, after a time.

She lets herself think again of Ichigo, of his eyes on the nape of her neck as he sits behind her with Shakespeare echoing in her ears. A flush curls over her throat. Her fingers smooth and knit into the folds of her skirt.

"Ah."

"Sorry?" Rukia asks, looking up once more.

Hisana smiles. Rukia is reminded again of how lovely her sister can be, when not ravaged by her own mind and body.

"There's a boy," Hisana says, sweeping the hair from her eyes. "Isn't there?"

Rukia blushes, her face warm. "No, no -"

"I remember that look," Hisana says softly, eyes soft. She leans on the island, fingers curling into the edge of the counter. "I know that look. There's a boy."

Ducking her head, Rukia looks at the table. She bites at the inside of her cheek, swallowing hard. “He sits behind me in English literature,” she says at last.

Hisana sighs. “I knew it. What’s his name?”

“Ichigo,” Rukia says before she can stop herself, her fingers twining in the folds of her skirt. “He’s – he’s your doctor’s son.”

Hisana is quiet for a moment. Rukia looks up, and finds her sister with a soft, distant look on her face. “That tall quiet boy?”

“Quiet?” Rukia blurts out. “ _Quiet_?”

“He’s very polite and quiet when I’m in the waiting room, yes,” Hisana says with a laugh. “Is he not quiet at school?”

“Not at all,” Rukia mutters, and Hisana giggles again.

“He seems very nice, Rukia,” she says. “Has he asked you out?”

Rukia flushes. “No, of course not. It’s not like that,” she says hurriedly. “It would be – well, strange.”

Smiling, Hisana tilts her head. “For a boy to like you? I don’t think that’s true. I remember Renji, he liked you very much.”

“We were _five_ and in daycare,” Rukia mutters, suddenly very uncomfortable. “And no – he just – he would know things,” she adds quietly, color high on her cheeks.

Her sister’s face shifts, changes; Rukia immediately looks down at her textbook, shame curling through her. “He’s loud, and annoying, in any case. He just likes to pick on me, that’s all,” she says quickly.

Hisana is quiet for a moment. Rukia can hear her rustling, the pans and pots clattering as she shifts back towards the stove. “Well, I like him,” she says at last. “I think it’s probably more than a little teasing, Rukia.”

That’s all they say on it for the rest of the night. Byakuya comes home, and the sight of Hisana up and well and cooking is nearly enough to move his mouth into a smile. Rukia watches them as she finishes her math homework. It’s all a little bittersweet, for it can never remain this way; but it’s nice, all the same.

If her thoughts stray to Ichigo, she doesn’t let it show.

*

Kyouraku-sensei has them studying Much Ado About Nothing. It's the first full lesson she's experienced with him, and his partner teacher Ise-san. Rukia had thought their style of banter and his casual ease in the classroom had been a fluke, something to fade.

She was mistaken, apparently.

"The compelling love story is not Hero and Claudius, as some would like you to think," Ise-san says calmly, her eyes darting to Mr. Kyouraku.

He lingers in the back corner of the bright classroom, watching her. Rukia is used to the taste of tension in the air, and it is thick between the two of them. She shifts in her seat, her fingers grazing the open pages of her copy of the play lightly.

"What is more compelling than an earnest man wooing a pretty innocent girl, Ise-chan?" Kyouraku calls, all ease and amusement.

Ise-san narrows her eyes. "The hard-won coming together of two equals, sir," she says coolly.

"As in Beatrice and Benedick," Kurosaki drawls behind Rukia. His voice feels too close to her skin, his breath warm. She imagines he is leaning in across the flat of his desk, can almost picture the lazy smile curving his mouth.

A flush rises on her throat. She digs her fingers into the smooth worn pages of her play, over the scrawl of Byakuya's even script in the margins. He has loaned her his copy, in a strange moment of solidarity in the face of a stretch of bad days from Hisana.

At the front of the classroom, Ise-san nods once, face placid. "Yes, Kurosaki. Exactly."

Behind her, Kyouraku laughs softly, completely amused. At Rukia's ear, Kurosaki murmurs her name.

"Sounds like the beginnings of a good story to me," he murmurs as Ise-san begins to go on, ignoring the chuckles and asides from Kyouraku.

Rukia can feel the heat flush her cheeks. She wets her lips and tilts her head just slightly. "Don't get ahead of yourself," she says under her breath.

Kurosaki laughs. The sound settles and warms her through. “I think you like this, Rukia.”

“I like this play, certainly,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes front.

There is the press of a warm hand at the nape of her neck, fingers sliding through her hair. She straightens in her chair, the breath catching in her throat. “I think you like me,” he says softly.

“I think you need some air,” she retorts.

With a laugh, his hand falls away. She pretends she doesn’t care.

After class, he takes her books from her, the everyday ritual. Their classmates still stare, but she’s stopped caring. It’s too much effort to try and get him to stop.

“A couple of us were going to go to the movies after school,” he says as they walk out of the classroom. He always walks a little too close for her comfort, his elbow brushing hers. “I thought you might want to come along.”

He jerks his head towards his locker, where she can see his friends, Ishida and Sado and Orihime, waiting. They wave, and she flushes.

“I can’t,” she murmurs, thinking of Hisana’s screams this morning. Her next doctor’s appointment is still a week away, and she refuses to go any earlier. “Thank you, but I can’t.”

She moves to take her books from him. His hand slides over hers, pinning them to his chest. “Consider it one of these days, yeah?” he asks quietly. “We’d like to have you around.”

Coloring, she nods, her fingers curling against his. “I – I will,” she murmurs.

He leaves her by her locker and walks over to join his friends, glancing back at her as he does. All she can do is watch, confused and flustered.

She wants more than just movies, she thinks. She wants a life.

*

Byakuya stops her in the morning a week later as she slips on her light jacket, mindful of the cool breezes lingering outside.

“Your sister has a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” he says, voice low.

“I know,” she says. The silence in the house is deafening. Hisana is still asleep, wrecked from a long night of pain.

Byakuya sighs, passing a hand over his face. “I have a meeting that I can’t change or miss. Can you take her?”

Rukia’s fingers freeze on the buttons of her coat. Her first thought is of Kurosaki; it horrifies her. “I – yes, of course,” she murmurs after a moment. “Of course I can.”

He touches her elbow, straightening the scarf at her throat. “Thank you, Rukia. It’s at two, so you’ll need to leave school early, if you can.”

“Of course, nee-sama,” she murmurs, biting at the inside of her cheek.

He leaves her then with a thank you and a goodbye. Rukia stares at her satchel for a moment, her fingers still stuck to the buttons of her jacket. Her fingertips are cold, nervousness sliding over her.

Then, Hisana begins to moan. It echoes and shakes in the hallway, the sounds edged with pain.

Rukia sighs and pulls off her coat, kicking off her shoes. School can hold another day.

*

Dr. Kurosaki – Isshin, he insists loudly and warmly over and over – is quite capable, even-handed as a doctor. Rukia spends the first ten minutes of the appointment trying to see what Ichigo has of his father in him, and comes up short. He sends her away to treat and talk to Hisana in any case, leaving her to shift for herself in the waiting room. She has her textbooks with her, and so she starts on homework. It’s a simple plan, easy enough.

Then, Hisana starts to cry.

It’s wrecked and ragged and the walls in the clinic are too thin. The sound sinks into Rukia’s ears and under her skin, and she shuts her books and curls into the chair. Her eyes shut and she tries to push it away, to close it out; there is a reason she doesn’t come to the appointments, why she never has.

“Hey! Look who it is.”

She looks up at the door to the waiting room, biting at her lip. Ichigo stands there, school bag slung over his shoulder. Bile rises at the back of her throat. Inside the room, she can hear Hisana’s voice rising and falling, the sobs mixing in with painful shaking breaths.

This is the last thing she wanted, Rukia thinks as she watches Ichigo’s gaze move from her to the door and her again. Another person to pity her.

“Don’t,” she says before he can say a word.

His gaze fixes on her, mouth curling downwards. “Okay,” he says, tossing his bag aside carelessly and walking over to her. “Come on.”

“Stop – what –“ she says, as he takes her by the elbows and pulls her up.

“Come on,” he repeats, setting her books on the chair next to her and dragging her out of the waiting room.

They end up sitting together on the curb of the sidewalk in front of the clinic, far enough away as to not hear a sound. He sits next to her, their knees knocking together, his hand still heavy around her elbow.

“Your brother’s an idiot and stays in there, sure. But you don’t have to,” Ichigo says at last, very quiet.

Tears burn behind her eyes. She ducks her head towards her chest and takes a sharp breath. His hand tightens around her elbow. “You never said anything,” she says, voice slightly choked.

“I didn’t put it together until about a week ago,” he says. “I didn’t know your sister’s last name.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “I just thought – I don’t know.”

“You thought I was holding out to use it against you?” he drawls. “Jesus, Rukia. What kind of friends have you had?”

“Not many at all,” she murmurs, tipping her head back. The sky is grey today, threatening spring rain that the cherry blossoms are starved for. “I don’t know if I thought that, though. I just thought you felt bad for me.”

“With a brother-in-law like that I do. Otherwise –“

“Stop,” she says, looking at him.

Ichigo smiles slightly. His hand remains at her elbow, warm and easy. “I get it,” he says after a moment. “My mom died years and years ago. We never talk about it. My friends, they don’t know about it, really. It’s – it’s personal, yeah? You don’t want people walking around pitying you because you’ve got the sick sister.”

She wets her lips, smoothing her skirt over her knees. The street is quiet, the neighborhood settling in and waiting for the children to come home from school. “Yes, I guess.”

“Well, that’s my reasoning, anyway,” he says with a shrug. “But what the hell do I know?”

The smile curving her mouth is instinctual. “You know enough,” she says quietly.

“Anyway, we’ll just sit out here until she’s finished. There’s no point in sitting through it. She wouldn’t want you to,” he says with a sigh. “You’re enough of a masochist that I bet you’d stay there the whole time.”

The thin skin of her throat flushes. “Hey!”

He smirks, hair falling across his brow as he leans in. “That’s what I thought.”

“You’re a jackass,” she mutters.

“If you don’t start being nice to me, I won’t tell you what you missed in school today,” he teases.

They sit there for the entire duration of the appointment, his hand on her arm and their knees pressed together. Eventually, his sisters come home from school; one, Yuzu, kisses his cheek before she hurries inside to start dinner, and the other, Karin, forces him to get up and kick a soccer ball with her in the street before she leaves them be again. Rukia watches all of this and aches for it; as strange and bizarre as the three of them are, as weird it is when Ichigo makes fun of his father and calls him Goat-Chin, she wants it.

Later, finally at home, she puts Hisana to bed as she always does on these days, and has take-out ready for Byakuya for when he finally comes home from work. There is a list of the assignments she missed for the day tucked into her jacket pocket, written out in Ichigo’s sprawling scrawl. Some of them are from classes they don’t share, and she has to wonder about him, in the quiet of her bedroom.

*

A tall shadow drops over her, different from the tree branches arching over her. “Yo.”

Rukia looks up from her book as she sits in the grass during lunch. Her knees tuck under her skirt. It’s another cool day; winter is reluctant to give up its grip on the city, even in mid-April.

“Kurosaki-san,” she says politely.

He sits next to her, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. “It’s Ichigo.”

Color flushes her throat. “Ichigo,” she repeats, a little clumsy with it.

Grinning, he stretches his legs out in front of him. His uniform pants tuck up at the ankles. “See? Not so hard.”

She bites the inside of her lip and glancing back down at her book, Shakespeare staring back up at her. The schoolyard is spotted with pockets of girls and boys with lunches, scrambling to finish homework for next class. She can see Orihime and her friends a few trees away, laughing and chatting. Orihime had said she always has a standing invitation to join their group for lunch, and it’s kind of her; but Rukia is still getting her bearings, and sometimes she just needs the solitude of her book, and a tree.

Of course, Ichigo never pays attention to that. This is the third day in a row since Hisana’s appointment that he’s infiltrated her space during lunch and just _sat_ next to her. It’s a step above alking to her in class and carrying her books. Sometimes, he’ll mention something about class, or tell her something stupid his friend Keigo’s done for a girl; but really, he just sits, and watches her.

She thinks she ought to mind. She finds she doesn’t.

“So,” he says after a moment.

Looking up at him, she tilts her head. “So?”

He tucks his hands behind his head, smiling lazily. “You’re a lot of work, you know that?”

“What?” she exclaims, flushing. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

She frowns and smoothes her hands over her skirt, shifting her weight as she sits. “Well, no one asked you to sit here,” she murmurs.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he drawls. A hand land on her knee. His skin is warm through her skirt, his thumb skimming the top of her knee. “It’s a good kind of work.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, suddenly exhausted. But she likes the feel of his hand on her skin.

“Are you busy tomorrow after school?” he asks, eyes fixed on her face.

She wets her lips, curling her fingers around her book. The edges of her scarf flutter at her throat. “No,” she says slowly. “Why?”

“I thought we could hang out,” he says, his fingers shifting against her skirt, her knee.

“With the others?” she blurts out.

Color spots high on his cheeks. He clears his throat. For all his bravado, he’s still a sheepish little boy sometimes, she thinks.

“No. Just you and me,” he says at last, voice low.

“Oh,” she murmurs, flushing warmly.

His hand stills on her knee, starts to shift away. “If you don’t want to – “

“No,” she says quickly, sliding her hand over his. “No – I mean – yes,” she says, nodding.

Ichigo looks down at their hands, back up to her face, and grins. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she says, smiling.

His hand turns over, their palms flat to each other’s. Fingers slide into hers. “Finally wore you down, eh?”

Now, she rolls her eyes. Her skin warms under his touch. “You’re an idiot.”

He grins and rises, pulling her to her feet easily. She curls her book into her side as he tucks her near to his side. The ease with which he touches her, pulls her in – it’s unnerving. “Yeah. But you said yes, didn’t you?”

He walks her to her next class. She can feel the eyes on them, some jealous, some curious. She finds again she doesn’t care. And when she goes home from school, and finds Hisana in an upswing, she smiles and laughs like one with something to share.

*

He's early, which is unexpected.

Today is a bad day - really, it's been a bad week. Hisana keeps to her room, frail and crying. Rukia stayed back from school to help this morning - even Byakuya lingered at home. The keening reverberates through the house, and Rukia is so distracted by her sister, and her brother's constant presence, and the nail marks on her arm, that she forgets for a moment that she has a date at all.

"Rukia. You should get ready," Byakuya says from the doorway of the kitchen.

Rukia ducks her head, taking a breath. Cold water runs over her hands, the lip of the sink digging into her stomach.

"Ready for what?" she asks after a moment, tired. She feels much older than she thinks she ought to, sometimes.

Behind her, Byakuya clears his throat. "You have a date, do you not? With the doctor's son."

A flush rises on her throat. "Oh," she murmurs, shutting the water off. In the quiet, Hisana's moans rise and fall in her ears. Guilt is thick in the back of her throat.

Then, the door chime rings.

Rukia looks down at her ratty house clothes, the crescents of her sister's nails red in the thin skin of her wrists. "Oh," she says again, running a hand through her hair.

"You go change, Rukia," Byakuya says evenly. "I will receive Kurosaki-san."

She finally trips her way down the stairs after ten minutes, fixing her scarf around her throat. Her fingers shake as she comes upon them in the front hall. Ichigo looks relaxed, unfazed by the striking figure Byakuya cuts. It's a point in his favor, truly. He stands up straight near the front door, but there's no tension. Instead, there's confidence, flecked in his eyes and lining his face. She wants to smack him, just because- but Byakuya is polite, and actually speaking to him, so it's shock enough.

"I'm sorry," she says, a little breathless as she hits the landing. Her skirt shifts and swirls at her knees.

Byukuya looks away towards the stairs, as a low wrecked moan filters through the air. Rukia nearly flinches, but Ichigo just watches her, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. His eyes don't waver.

"You're late," he says with a small smirk.

"You're early," she retorts, approaching. She passes her brother, who shifts towards the stairs.

Ichigo grins fully then, hand outstretched. "Couldn't wait," he says lightly, tucking the haphazard ends of her scarf tighter around her throat. His knuckles graze her jaw. He's bold in front of her brother; the look in his eyes sends color to her cheeks.

"Be home by ten," Byukuya says from behind them.

She glances back, nodding. “Thank you, Nii-sama,” she murmurs.

“Nice seeing you again, Kuchiki-san,” Ichigo says politely, before he leads her out the door.

Outside, it's a cool day. The cherry blossoms fall through the air, catching at her hair. The hem of her skirt flutters at her knees. Together, they stand at the front gate of the walkway. He doesn't press her, and she doesn't move out onto the sidewalk, not yet.

The silence is strange in her ears, too much. She doesn't look at him for a moment, collecting herself. This is her first moment to breathe.

His hand settles on the small of her back, warm through her thin jacket. "Hey," he says, his voice very close to her ear.

With a soft sigh, she looks up, the color high on her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she says again, because she can still hear Hisana, feel the cut of fingernails into the back of her hand.

He shrugs, and shakes his head. His hand finds its way to her hair, pulling stray blossoms from the dark strands. "I get it," he says, and that's all. He doesn't ask why, or how Hisana is doing, or if she's okay. His fingers graze her cheek before they fall away.

It feels like a relief, to push the gate open and walk out into the sidewalk. He tucks her hand into his lightly as they begin to walk.

"Ise-san and Kyouraku missed you in class today," he says.

Rukia shakes her head, his fingers shifting against his. "I'm sure they didn't."

"All right. Maybe it was just me," he drawls, eyes dark on hers.

She flushes, elbowing his side. "You're an idiot," she mutters.

He grins, his thumb easy on her knuckles. "You wound me."

Tipping her head back, she looks up into the blue soft sky. The neighborhood is quiet, children home from school and safe inside. "I'm rethinking this whole thing," she mutters.

"No, you're not," he teases.

“How can you be so sure?” she retorts.

“Because you’re here,” he says, suddenly serious.

She bites at the inside of her lip. They turn the corner, walking slowly. He hasn’t said a thing about where they are going, still – but she finds she doesn’t mind. It’s enough to just be out of the house. It’s enough that he asked, if she’s truthful with herself.

“I am here,” she says, breathing in slowly.

He grins, and shrugs. His eyes are dark, skin very warm against hers. “Besides, I knew I’d wear you down,” he drawls.

“You’re a moron,” she says, shaking her head.

Laughing, he tucks her closer to his side. “You don’t need to keep sweet talking me, Rukia.”

She just smiles slightly, throat warm with color.

They walk through the residential neighborhood towards the edges of the center of town, trees thinning. The silence is comfortable, the press of his hand against hers. There’s a strange energy floating between them, enveloping them; she can feel it in her fingertips, in the brush of his thumb across the back of her hand. It’s comfortable, easy; the knot between her shoulders and at the nape of her nape unfurls. She thinks she can taste ice on her tongue.

“Where are we?” she asks at last, craning her neck. Karakura Town is still foreign to her, for the most part. She knows the neighborhood around the Kurosaki clinic, and around school – but there is little time for exploration.

The buildings shrink, trees bending over a wide open rink ahead. Strings of lights dip and shift in the breeze. Voices pitch and carry into her ears, young and happy and bright. She can smell it now, the slow melt of ice. Something settles in her stomach, low and warm.

He stops them at the wide arch of the entrance to the ice rink. “You said you’ve never done this before,” he says quietly.

“When did I say that?” she asks, blinking.

He smiles, a little sheepishly, as he stands in front of her. His free hand brushes through her hair again, catching in the loose strands near her ear. Her face warms under his gaze. “Your first day. Kyouraku made you give a stupid fact about yourself, remember?”

She flushes, tipping her head back. The hand not laced with his settles on his chest, her fingers sinking and slipping against the soft worn leather of his jacket. It feels like a hand-me-down; she likes it, likes the dark of the leather. “I remember,” she says, startled.

“Yeah. You said you’d never been, and that you wanted to go,” he says, his hand settling on her throat, weaving through her scarf.

There’s a strange sort of burn behind her eyes. She feels at sea, soft-kneed and unsettled. “You remembered that?”

He shrugs, but there’s nothing lazily or casual about the way he’s looking at her now. “Eh, I thought it might come in handy,” he murmurs.

His fingers touch her jaw as she curls her fingers into his chest. “You’re one surprise after another, Ichigo,” she says after a moment.

“Eh, I do what I do,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ear before he drops his hand back to his side. “Ready?”

She nods, and lets him lead her through the archway. As she sits on the bench he directed her to, there is a nervous sort of tingle in her fingertips and her stomach. The feeling is a rarity.

"It'll be fun, yeah?" Ichigo says as he brings back two pairs of skates to the bench they've commanded.

Rukia wets her lips, tasting the ice faintly on the air. "I think so," she says, reaching for her skates.

He stops her hand, batting it down to her lap. "I got this," he says, setting the skates down and loosely taking one of her ankles in hand.

She can't help but stare as he bows his head over her feet. Puzzling this Ichigo together with the stubborn brash boy she knows from class and outside, from the incessant courting - it's sometimes too much.

But, she thinks as he finishes with the laces and rises to slide his own on, he makes it easy for her. She likes that.

"Ready?" he asks as he stands over her, hand outstretched. His smile is lazy but his eyes are dark, earnest.

She slips her hand into his, letting him pull her up. "Ready," she says with a small smile.

*

They stumble and shift their way around the ice in circuits, keeping close to the rink's edge. Children and teenagers twirl and weave around them, but she is patient with herself. So is he.

"I'm not very good," he says with a laugh. In the late afternoon light his hair reflects the orange-yellow sunlight. His hand is secure in hers.

She shakes her head, twining her fingers into his. "You can stay upright. You're good enough," she says , biting her lip in concentration.

"Was that a compliment?" he drawls, mouth splitting into a slow grin.

"Shut up," she retorts.

Her toe pick catches in the ice. She pitches forward with a small gasp of sound. Immediately he grasps her at the waist, pulling her against him to steady her. His hands are broad and warm at her waist through her jacket, his face close to hers.

She lets her hands fall to his chest, sinking into the soft leather. "Thanks," she murmurs, face flush.

He slides his hands over her hips, color spotting high on his cheeks. "Hey," he says, voice low. "It's nothing."

But there is no moment between them that is nothing, she thinks as her fingers tighten in his jacket. The cool breeze ruffles her scarf.

He leans in, his eyes dark on her mouth. She can't help but cower, a little; it's strange and unsettling, the sensation in her chest and the tingling in her nerves. She wishes now that Hisana was well, whole; an older sister would be good for moments like these.

One of his hands lifts to her face, fingers curling at her jaw. "We can just skate," he says quietly.

Her nails dig into his chest, the worn leather. "Did I say I just wanted to skate?" she retorts. She feels her face warm under his touch.

"No. I'm just saying," he says with a grin.

"You talk too much," she says. He, and the ice, and the afternoon of freedom, it has all made her bold.

Brows raised, he relaxes his hand at her cheek. "Yeah? Okay," he says.

Then, his mouth grazes hers, opening softly over her lips. She shuts her eyes and sighs, as he slides her closer to him. Children squeal and giggle, but with his mouth on hers and his fingers soft on her jaw, her temple, she doesn't care.

“This is fun,” she says against his mouth, her hands sliding up around his neck.

The smile presses from his lips to hers, his teeth gentle against her lip. He slides his fingers into her hair and tucks her close. She fits well against him, between the breadth of his shoulders. “Of course it is. It’s me.”

She shakes her head with a laugh, breaking the pull of his mouth on hers. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big words. I like it,” he drawls, leaning into kiss her again.

There is a sharp chorus of throats clearing, mothers glaring at them from the sidelines. Rukia flushes, ducks her head. Ichigo scoffs, but slides an arm over her shoulders. Her cheek presses against his shoulder. “Guess we should skate again,” he says, a little disgruntled.

She laughs again, tilting her head back. “Next time, just take me to the back of your car,” she teases.

His gaze darkens, a smile curling his mouth. “Don’t give me ideas. I’ll buy a damn car,” he says as he pushes them along the ice once more. He keeps his arm around her, and she leans into him and enjoys the air.

*

“I really did have fun,” Rukia says as he walks her to the front gate. It’s dark and cool again, moonlight soft on the sidewalk and the tree branches.

“Enough to do it again?” Ichigo asks, leaning against the gate.

She bites at the inside of her lip. Her hands rise from her sides to his chest, soft against the worn leather of his jacket. The house is dark except for Byakuya’s second floor office window, and the front hall. She doesn’t want to go back in the house, not yet.

“If you ask nicely,” she says after a moment, tipping her head back.

His hand is broad and warm at her waist. “You’re a hell of a lot of work, Rukia,” he says with a sigh. “I mean –“

She rises up on her toes and kisses him, still clumsy. This has never been something she’s good at, but with him, it feels easy. Her eyes shut and she leans into his chest, letting him keep her weight. He kisses her with purpose, his tongue easy against the seam of her lips. She tightens her grip on the collar of his jacket and shuts her eyes, letting him press her back against the front gate. It feels reckless, different than her usual self, and she _likes_ it.

“I really might buy that car,” he murmurs at last, their mouth still very close together.

Smiling, she smoothes her hands across his chest. “Yeah?”

“Maybe,” he says, the shadows cutting across his face. His smile is white in the darkness. “So. Want to go to the movies tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she says, as his hands slides over her waist. “With everyone else?”

“They can come if they want. You and I will be in the back of the theatre though,” he says with a cheeky grin.

She smacks his chest. “You’re terrible.”

He leans in and kisses her again, soft and light. “Will you be in school tomorrow?”

“I should be,” she says, flushing and grateful for the dark.

“Good,” he says, reaching into his pockets. “Your assignments,” he adds, pushing a slip of paper into her hands.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, biting at the inside of her cheek. She then leans up and kisses him again, her hand light on his chest. “Thank you,” she repeats, the press in her chest nearly too much.

He leaves her with a wave, watching as she walks into the house. It’s reassuring, to feel his eyes on her even as she retreats.

Rukia shuts the front door and sighs. She can’t bring herself to stop smiling.

*

Inoue's house is small, but cozy. Or, Rukia imagines it would be cozy, if it wasn't packed with loud noisy classmates.

"This is a party?" she murmurs to Ishida as they stand at the bottom of the stairs.

Ishida takes a long swallow of whatever alcoholic concoction he's created. "It would appear to be."

"It's very crowded," she says, fingers curled hard around the bannister. She can see Ichigo in the living room, all but towering over the rest of their classmates. He's slumped, a little sheepish, but they all flock to him, strangely. At least in this crowd, he’s the cool kid.

"You really don't get out very much, do you Kuchiki-san?" Ishida asks, all amusement.

She flushes and looks down at her drink, shrugging. It’s been a little less than a month since her first date with Ichigo, and slowly, she is becoming incorporated into his social circle. There have been movies and dinners and group lunches at school, but very little else has changed. He still teases her in class, still carries her books, still invades her personal space as much as he ever did. But now, in empty classrooms at lunch he’ll kiss her until she can’t breathe. She’s even been over to his house for dinner a few times, and has been fully subjected to Isshin and the entire family. Ichigo always seems overly apologetic after each time, but she’s happy to be there; it’s easier than her own home life.

Hisana continues to decline, for no real reason. Byakuya has taken a leave of absence from the company to stay with her. It feels like the calm before the storm; on a day to day basis, she is fine; but Rukia can sense it, the weakening of everything. She wants to do something, but feels entirely helpless. Coming to this party, to celebrate the end of the winter term, seems wrong; but Byakuya had insisted she go, and Ichigo wheedled and pleaded.

“No, I really don’t,” she says at last, pressing her lips into the rim of her plastic cup.

Ishida smiles slightly, a rare expression on his usually somber face. “He likes you a lot, you know.”

“What?” she asks, glancing at him.

“Ichigo. He likes you a lot. I’m just saying. It takes a lot for him to open up. You’re different,” he says, gaze intense.

Color rises on her cheeks. She sips her drink, looking out across the living room again. Ichigo’s gaze settles on her. He smiles a little, that sharp private grin she knows is hers, and begins to move towards her. “He’s different,” she says at last.

Ishida touches her arm for a moment. “As long as you know,” he says before he leaves her, moving towards Orihime in the doorway of the kitchen.

Rukia leans against the banister and waits for Ichigo to reach her, her fingertips light on her cup. It’s loud and crowded but she doesn’t mind; she likes it, she thinks.

"You look weird."

She looks up. Ichigo leans into her side, eyebrows raised. He's drink-less, and she's a little surprised.

"That's so sweet of you, Ichigo," she says flatly. Her fingers curl at her skirt.

Ichigo grins and slides a steady arm around her waist. She turns into him, into the breadth of his shoulders. Her hand falls to his chest. It's instinctual now - she thinks it ought to be strange, but it isn't.

C'mon," he says right at her ear, soft against the thud of the music.

"Where?" she asks, even as she lets him pull her up the stairs, away from the shouting and the strange cropping up of dancing in the middle of the living room.

"I'm not kidnapping you," he says dryly.

“That’s considerate, idiot,” she retorts.

He pulls her down the hallway to an empty room, what looks to be a guest room. She walks in, looking at him for a moment. But he’s silent, just watching her, and so she shrugs and explores, her eyes moving to the bookcase.

"I feel bad for bringing you," Ichigo says finally.

She stops in her exploration of the bookshelf (sparse, dull), and turns to look at him. He watches her from his place against the closed door, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. Hair falls across his brow, shadowing his gaze.

"Why?" she asks, frowning a little.

He shrugs. "I just - are you even having fun?"

Her mouth curls a little. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah. I know it's not your thing, but I thought-"

She laughs, and his voice fades. "You're an idiot," she says, shaking her head.

"Why now?" he exclaims, straightening up against the door as she walks towards him.

"You have me alone in a guest room, and this is what you want to do?" she asks.

Her hands fall to his chest, fingers curling at the buttons of his shirt. The flush rises on her throat and face as his hands fall to her waist.

His mouth curls, his eyes dark on hers. "I really did just want to talk," he murmurs.

She rolls her eyes, fingers shifting against his chest. Her hips slide and graze his. "You're an idiot."

His hands are warm through the thin cotton of her dress. "Bold move," he says, voice low in his throat. His mouth catches hers.

"I'm trying to catch up," she says softly. The flush is warm on her skin.

The music is a dull push of rhythm in her heels. His hands shift at the small of her back, one rising to touch her hair. She leans into it, to the press of his fingers at her temple.

"You're perfect," he says at last, voice very quiet. It's strange to hear him quite so soft.

“Stop it,” she murmurs, fingers, curling in the collar of her shirt. Her knuckles brush the warm skin of his throat.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he retorts. His grin presses against her mouth.

Her blouse rises from her waist as she arches against him, her arms sliding around his neck. She shivers as his fingers find bare skin, sliding from her back to her hip. “Ichigo, do you always have to be his difficult?” she asks into his mouth, her fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

His gaze is heavy and dark on hers. The hand near her hair slides over to cup her cheek as the palm of his other hand presses to her bare hip, fingers soft at the waist of her skirt. She swallows hard and breathes against his lips; her hair falls into her eyes.

“You know the answer to that,” he says quietly.

She leans in and kisses him again, biting lightly at his bottom lip. The hand at her hip flexes and sighs against her skin, the band of her skirt. His body thrums with tension, sharp and hard against her hands, her mouth. He feels even more skittish than she does, she thinks as the warmth rises on her cheeks and her tongue presses against his, wet and wanting.

He tips his head back, their mouths parting with a soft sound that leaves her aching. She chases for a moment, her gaze fixed on his. Her nails scrape at the nape of his neck.

“We can go back downstairs, Rukia,” he says, voice very low.

Biting the inside of her lip, she stares at his throat. “Do you want to go back downstairs?” she asks, surprised at how quiet she sounds.

The silence stretches between them. His hand shifts at her bare skin, touching the goosebumps rising across her flesh.

“I just – fuck, it’s not that I _want_ to go back downstairs, I just – I don’t want to ruin anything,” he says, face red.

“You talk too much,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Just – stop it,” she adds, kissing him again.

This time, he slides both his hands to her hips and kisses back, his tongue easy at the seam of her lips. He walks her back towards the desk just steps away from the bookshelf. The back of her thighs hits the lip of the desk and she sighs into his mouth as he nudges her up to sit. He’s there between her knees, his mouth hot and open over hers, and she can’t catch her breath. Her fingers slide and shift across his throat and shoulders as he drags his mouth along the line of her jaw.

“You have to – you have to tell me,” he murmurs on her skin, his hands there at the hem of her skirt, flush against her thighs.

She looks at him and smiles slightly, shaking her head. “When haven’t I told you when you were being an idiot?” she drawls.

He smiles then, a sharp smirk she knows very well. “Good point,” he says before he kisses her again.

Shifting, she settles back and sighs into his mouth, her knees pressed to his hips. His fingers skim under the hem of her skirt, towards the inside of her thighs. This isn’t completely new – there have been moments in the classrooms, in the soft empty silence of her room, where his hands travel and stutter, but never shift farther than she wants.

“Ichigo,” she murmurs against his mouth as his fingertips find the edges of her panties.

“Stop?” he breathes, voice heavy. She can feel the reverberation of it against her jaw, her throat.

She shakes her head, cupping his face between her hands. “Is that what I said?”

“God, you are a lot of work,” he mutters.

Smiling, she leans in and kisses him, shifting her hips as his fingers finally press in and against her through her panties. The moan is low in her throat and he swallows it, his mouth steady and even on hers.

She thinks for some it would be too quick. For her it feels right, his fingers against and in her, her name a low sort of prayer on his lips. Returning the favor, with him flushed and choked against her, her fingers curious and wanting on him, is easy, too.

Things with him are easy, even when he’s an idiot and she can’t open her mouth to talk about the demons over her shoulders.

*

When everything is going well, Rukia always knows to hold her breath, to wait for the other shoe to drop. It finally does, in July, just three months into Ichigo, and she can’t bear to call him when it happens.

The hospital is like all the others ones; white, sterile, a sharp soapy taste in the air. Rukia sits in a chair in the hallway, sitting outside her sister’s room. Byakuya is in there, always at her side. Dr. Kurosaki is somewhere, talking to surgeons, or other doctors. Rukia’s too tired to care, really.

The end is coming, and she doesn’t care.

Her ankles cross, her knees pressed together as she sits. Hands flat on her skirt, she stares at the floor. Hair sticks limply to her cheek, her throat. It’s been almost two days straight for her in the hospital, just sitting and waiting; she doesn’t remember what day it is, whether she’s missed the start of the summer session or not, when the last time she spoke to Ichigo was. Byakuya, usually a stickler for such things, is too entrenched in Hisana to notice much of anything else.

It’s just another abandonment, after all.

There are quick heavy footsteps down the hall, coming towards her. She doesn’t look up. The creases and dips of the stark white tile weave in her gaze. Then, someone drops into the chair next to her.

“Yo.”

She bites the inside of her lip and looks to the side. Ichigo sits there, face set in serious lines. He keeps his hands in fists on his knees.

“What are you doing here?” she asks after a moment, voice thick from disuse.

“Coming to get you,” he says firmly.

She hums and looks away, back at the black pleats of her skirt. “I can’t. Hisana – “

“Your brother called me,” he cuts her off. “He wanted to me take you home.”

“He had no right,” she says sharply.

Ichigo shrugs next to her. Finally, he touches her, his hand on her shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I was coming anyway. My dad told me what happened.”

Swallowing hard, she shuts her eyes. “I guess he doesn’t believe in doctor – patient confidentiality,” she murmurs.

“He thought I already knew about this,” he says after a moment, his hand tightening on her shoulder. “He thought you would have told me.”

There is a harsh burn behind her eyes. She shakes her head slightly, keeping her eyes squeezed shut.

“I mean, it would make sense,” he continues, voice hardening at the edges. “I’m your friend. I’m your boyfriend. You know things about me. It makes sense.”

“I _can’t_ do this right now,” she says through her teeth. Her legs rise as she tucks herself into the chair, wrapping her arms around herself. “I just can’t. Go home, Ichigo.”

“No,” he says evenly. His arm settles around her shoulders, and she flinches. There’s another arm around her, and his mouth falls to her brow. He surrounds her, awkwardly contorted in the chair. “I’m either staying here with you or you’re coming home with me.”

Her fingers tremble, curl into her palms. “Please,” she says softly, opening her eyes.

“Please what?” he asks, voice low. His lips move against her brow.

That’s the thing, she thinks as she curls into herself, lets him envelope her. She doesn’t know.

They sit together for long moments, his mouth near her hair and his hands warm and broad on her back and waist. The halls are quiet; her ears feel empty without the sound of Hisana’s moans and screams in them.

“Can we go?” she asks at last, tipping her head back to look at him.

Ichigo, mouth set in a thin line, nods. “Yeah.”

*

“It’s strange,” she says, curled up in a corner of his bed. “I know she’s dying – but nothing feels different.”

Ichigo, stretched out long the edge of the bed, just watches her, his hands tucked behind his head. His bedroom is very dark, with just the moonlight creeping along the windowsill and the yellow hallway light seeping in through under the door. He had asked her, as they got onto his motorcycle, where she had wanted to go; _anywhere but home_ , she had replied.

Here, in a room she has never been, she feels strangely at ease. His sisters are downstairs, amusing themselves and doing their homework. Their voices are reassuring, warm; this house, it feels like a home.

Rukia curls her hands into her lap and sighs, leaning against the wall. “She’s been gone for years. Really, she has,” she says quietly. “I haven’t had my older sister for almost ten years.”

“You have your brother,” he says after a moment.

She shrugs. “I know. But he – he doesn’t _know_ what to do with me, I think,” she says, a catch in her throat. “He loves her so much – and I just –“

“He called me,” Ichigo says suddenly, eyes heavy on her. “He’s a stoic jackass, yeah, but he tries.”

Swallowing hard, she looks at the wrinkles and folds of her skirt. The days, the whole week settles on her shoulders. She wants to go back to ice skating, to movie nights with his friends, to his nudging her into empty classrooms during lunch and kissing her until she can’t breathe; here, in his space and this school and this town, she feels like finally, finally she has something to look forward to, something to connect with.

“I’m tired,” she blurts out, ducking her head. Her hair falls across her eyes, against her throat. Shame rises too warm on her neck.

He sighs, a slow heavy sound. The bed shifts as he sits up and reaches for her, his hand warm around her arm. “C’mere,” he says, voice low. He tugs her across the bed.

She slides across the blanket and curls into him, her face pressed into his throat. He tucks her close, his ankle sliding between hers. Her skirt pushes up her thighs with every move; she breathes against him, her face very warm.

“I’m just tired. I feel awful, but I am,” she says against the hard line of his throat.

His hands shift against her waist, her spine. “Don’t be stupid.”

A sort of laugh chokes in her throat. “You sure know how to talk people down.”

He presses his mouth to the top of her head. “Shut up,” he says, smoothing his hand over her back. “I get it,” he says after a beat. “I do. My mom died, and none of us have ever talked about it. My dad has a huge blown-up photo of her in the kitchen, and we visit her grave every year to have a picnic. But we don’t talk about shit, and it made us the way we are.”

She breathes, tears edging her eyes. She’s never cried in front of him before; she’s not sure she wants to now. “I like your family,” she mumbles at last.

“Yeah, but we’re idiots. We’re loud idiots who never talk about anything, and you – you don’t need to be like that,” he says. “Byakuya isn’t going to leave you just because your sister is gone.”

Her fingers dig into his t-shirt, his chest. She can feel the bite of her nails into his skin through the cotton. “You don’t know that.”

He weaves a hand through her hair. “Yeah, I do.”

“Ichigo –“

“No, come on,” he says, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “He stayed for the both of you. He’s not going to ditch you. And even if he did, you have me. I have a spare closet you could sleep in, and –“

She leans up and kisses him, the tears sliding down her cheeks. Her eyes shut and she pushes him onto his back, curling herself over him as her mouth opens to his, soft. The breaths are ragged and sharp in her chest. His arms wrap around her and keep her close, as she leans over him. Her hair spills across her cheeks and his jaw.

“Thank you, you moron,” she says against his mouth.

His hands close and tighten at her waist, keeping her too close. “Still with the insults. Jesus.”

She can’t help but laugh a little, tears still sliding across her cheeks. “You can talk about it,” she says at last, as he wipes her damp face with his fingertips, the corner of his sheet. “I would listen.”

Something in his face softens. He turns her onto her back and smoothes the hair from her eyes, her mouth. “Yeah. I know,” he says quietly.

“Good,” she says before she turns onto her side and presses back into him. His arm slides over her stomach as his leg covers hers, and they are pressed back to chest. His face rests near the line of her throat, mouth soft on the skin there. She finds his hand with hers, twines their fingers together, and waits.

In the morning, the house phone rings. She has her tea cup in the sink and her shoes on before Ichigo hangs up the phone.

“It’s time,” she says evenly as he comes into the front hall. The heat is thick outside, rising through the air.

“Yeah,” he says, mouth drawn, hands stuffed in his pockets.

She smoothes her hair back into a knot at the nape of her neck and nods. “Okay. Will you come?” she asks. Every part of her is straight and upright, chin jutting into the air.

Ichigo slides his shoes on and takes her hand. “Of course,” he says, and she’s ready.

*

They bury Hisana on a warm rainy day two weeks later.

Rukia stands with Byakuya, her arm tucked into his. Across the way, Ichigo and his family stand and watch silently, with some of Byakuya’s business associates. It’s a small group, but there is strength in them. It’s quick, and very quiet, just as Hisana passed. It’s an easier day than Rukia imagined; she’s not sure whether she’s doing something wrong.

“She was happy you were happy,” Byakuya says to her as they walk away from the gravestones, towards the waiting cars.

Rukia looks up, frowning slightly. “Nii-sama?”

“Hisana knew you were happy here. That made her content. I believe – I believe it made it easier for her to go,” he says, voice even. He holds the umbrella over the both of them, protecting them from the drizzle.

Swallowing, she squeezes his elbow. “I’m sorry, nii-sama.”

“No, no. She was proud of you,” he says, letting her lean her weight on him as they walk through the slippery grass towards the walkway. “I am proud of you too, Rukia.”

This is how she knows they will stay here, in this town, in their house. It’s not everything, but it’s enough, for now.

Ichigo waits for her, leaning against his motorcycle. He holds an umbrella out, eyebrows raised. Byakuya moves away from her to speak with Isshin, a hand easy on her shoulder as he passes. Rukia smoothes her hands over her black dress and looks up at Ichigo, ducking under the cover of the umbrella.

“Hi,” she says.

“You okay?” he asks, touching her cheek.

“I think so,” she says, sliding her hand into his. “Coming back to the house?”

He smiles slightly. “If you want me there, yeah.”

Rukia leans up and presses a kiss to his cheek, letting him support her weight for a moment. “I want you there,” she says against his skin.

His hand tightens its grip around hers. It’s not everything she wants, not yet; but right now, it’s enough. There’s time for everything else.

*


End file.
